Visits to You
by The Versatile Scarf
Summary: Is this the last time? [MultiChapter][A series of oneshots dealing with the last visit to each bohemian, even those who have been removed previous to the storyline.][Completed]
1. Chapter 1

Visits to You

By: The Versatile Scarf

Disclaimer: I own neither RENT nor the Anthony Rapp song.

Summary: Is this the last time?

Author's Notes: This is in no way affiliated with any other story by the title 'Visits to You'. 'Kay. Now that that is settled, we may proceed. This will be a multi-chapter story. Don't expect miracles in my 'cranking out' of chapters. I'm not fast.

Warnings: Allusions to character death.

x-x-x-x-x

_Visits to You  
Are suddenly new  
And suddenly everything's sacred_

The graveyard was cold in April, much like the rest of New York. Ah, the Big Apple and its bipolar weather. Endearing to tourists, torturous to inhabitants. Especially those inhabitants who couldn't afford heat. His breath was visible in the bitter morning air, condensing and then dissipating in mere seconds, a natural occurrence that warmed the hearts of children and chilled the hearts of adults, who had already seen enough frigidity in the world.

A shiver ran relays up and down his spine as he passed a headstone depicting an angel in prayer, her head bowed low over her hands, hair falling in sheets over her face.

She had deserved something as elaborate as that.

He hadn't hated April. Even after she took Roger with her down that rabbit hole of drugs and sex and the bastardization of rock and roll, he hadn't hated her. His former glory had been taken away with the needle that drew the blood for the test that spelled out their death sentences. Only remnants of it remained, though the disease coursing through his veins was killing it off. April remained in his blood, taking his glory for herself. Sucking him dry like some perverted sort of tic.

Which was why today would be the end of that chapter in Roger's life--in their life.

The gravel path crunched under two pairs of shoes, filling the silence that had fallen between the two friends. Needless to say, Mark had been beyond surprised when a puffy-eyed, shivering ex-rockstar had shaken him awake that morning, begging for closure. Begging for release from the dead, chilled fingers that had closed around his wrist as he screamed and screamed and screamed. Begging for release from her smiling hazel eyes as they stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Begging for release from the smeared lipstick surrounding a dead smile. He had begged and begged, still begging until the two of them had closed the door of the loft behind them.

And now they were here, shutting another, proverbial, door.

Rows upon rows of headstones, both simple and extravagant, leading up to their destination. A small, squarish marker. April Firgens imprinted in stern script across it. Birth date to death date. Long dead flowers placed beside it, in the hole provided by the cemetery. Nothing more and nothing less.

He heard Roger heave a sigh full of regret, sorrow, and what was once love but now just pain.

"... Hi April."

It was then that Mark turned, walking off a bit to leave the other to his last visit; his closure. Roger needed this. They both needed this. Then they could move on from shuddering each time they walked into the bathroom, or from Roger waking in the middle of the night and asking where April had gone to, or from Mark expecting the smell of percolating coffee in the morning, just like April used to make it. There was no coffee anymore. Not an ounce of feminine trace in the loft--Maureen had left for Joanne a week or two back. It being a woman had been more of a shock than her actually cheating. He had known she was cheating. He had been too busy keeping Roger from killing himself, either through drugs, a razor, or neglecting his AZT. He couldn't let him do that. Maureen had gone. Collins had gone. April.. April had -been- gone, but now it had come around again and this _needed_ to end _now_.

There were flowers growing alongside one of the paths he had taken. Swallowing, he knelt down to pick a few of them, frowning at the uneven lengths of stems that came with the flower heads. Flowers that were probably weeds anyway. He didn't care. At least they were pretty. Holding them tightly in one pale hand, blue eyes closed slowly, and he inhaled deeply. A sneeze followed, but he didn't care. Nor did he mind the sniffles that came after the sneeze. It had been worth it.

The path now crunched under only one pair of boots as he returned to the vacant grave. Roger had gone, then. It hadn't been a very long visit, but if it was all he needed.. then it was all he needed, and Mark wouldn't argue with that. Standing at the foot of the grave, his eyes flickered over the placard once again, before roaming to the hole in the ground beside it. The dead flowers had been cleared away, and a rolled up piece of sheet music had been placed there instead. Suddenly, his own gift seemed beyond inadequate. One of the flowers fell limp in his grasp even as he shifted, eyeing the piece of paper Roger had placed there.

"... He still loves you, you know.. He always will, I think." His voice sounded pathetic. He -felt- pathetic, talking to nothing; no one. "He.. you're part of his glory. Always will be."

He shrugged half-heartedly, as though he were stating a well-known fact, though the truth was he _needed_ to tell her this. He _needed_ to tell this to _someone_, and she seemed a good a candidate as any. Besides, if she were laughing at him, he'd never know. April had always laughed at him. Maureen had always laughed at him. Cindy had always laughed at him. Maybe it was a sort of trend that followed through the females in his life.

"You once compared me to a puppy." The blonde shifted nervously, another of the stems breaking with an audible 'crack' in his hand. ".. I think I know what you mean now." He cracked a half-smile, but the corners of his lips were twisted so severely downwards that it looked more like a grimace than anything even -resembling- a smile.

".. Here. I.. I picked these for you." He stepped forward gingerly, placing the flowers in the cup. Two of the flowers hung over the side, pitifully. The rest seemed to dull in comparison to Roger's music. "We.. we tried to buy some nice ones on the way over, but... I spent the last of our money on Roger's AZT. Don't tell him that, though. He thinks I just left it at home accidently." Biting down on the inside of his bottom lip, the young man glanced around the graveyard.

"Everyone misses you. Collins said, just the other day.. he said... I don't remember what he said, but it made us miss you that much more." Mark's voice hitched a bit, but he quickly lifted his glasses up and wiped below both eyes, breathing deeply; shakily. "But this needs to happen. This needs to happen if Roger is ever going to live again. We can't keep coming back here. Roger can't keep running out to try and get his next hit fand end up here instead, cursing and screaming at you. I can't keep waking up and wondering when you'll be home, and then remember the blood stain in the bathroom that I can't fucking get out of the floor, April! It's never going to fucking leave and its all your fault!" A choked sob, even as he wiped away the tears that were now rolling freely down his cheeks. He swiped listlessly at them, his shoulders drooping, head bowing forward.

His breathing remained heavy as he tried to regain composure, which seemed just out of his reach. Just far enough away that it was unattainable. "That's why I can't keep coming back here. We can't. We'll remember you, April, but it's better to remember you as you are on film, rather than in a bathtub filled with pink water. It's.. it's better... better.." Another hiccuped sob.

A warm, comforting arm slipped itself around his shoulder, and for a moment he wondered if April had come back. In some bizarre twist of fate, she had never died, and he was crying over some random person's headstone.

But that was not the case. The headstone still read the same words, taunting him.

Without looking up, he placed a hand over the one resting on his trembling shoulder, squeezing gently.

"Bye, April.."

"Bye April.." he echoed, before the two of them turned away, starting down the path, back to the loft and their lives.

The silence was again filled with the crunching of their boots, but now they were more like a four-legged creature, rather than two separate entities.

".. those were pretty flowers, Mark."

".. yeah.. they were pretty, weren't they?"

"Yeah, they were."

x-x-x-x-x

A/N: Et this chapter... est fini. Reviews welcome. This is just chapter one out of a series of eight or nine. I have yet to decide.


	2. Chapter 2

Visits to You

Chapter Two

By: The Versatile Scarf

A/N: You know those authors who only write for reviews? I'm glad I'm not one of them 3 Anyway, this story will continue to the end whether you like it or not.

x-x-x-x-x

_I've been here before,  
Will I be here again?  
Please tell me you'll never be taken._

Halloween was approaching. Bats and pumpkins and ghosts and ghouls hung from windows hither and thither, bringing him no cheer whatsoever. Why should he be happy? He hadn't celebrated Halloween since he was fourteen, and even then his father had frowned on the practice--he was far too old to be to be making a fool of himself and mooching off of the neighbors. When was he going to become a man? Mark remembered standing at the foot of the stairs, attempting to stop the tears from spilling down his cheeks, watching as nineteen-year-old Cindy pranced out the door in her witch's hat and dress, giggling with the friends who had come to pick her up, and wincing as one of them blew a mocking kiss in his direction.

He remembered sitting in his room, shoulders slumped, eyes red, nose stuffy, when a 'tap' cam at his window. Another a few moments later, and then a 'slam' following mere seconds afterward.

The shoe that had been thrown at the window bounced away, giving him enough time to register just what had hit his window before it fell completely out of sight. With a grin and a mischievious glint in his eyes, young Mark flew down the stairs and tiptoed his way out the front door to meet up with Elvis Presley, who was wearing a cat-like grin and hopping around, attempting to put the shoe he had thrown back on.

"If you had broken my window..."

"Your parents can eat my shorts, come on."

Roger was walking beside him now, much as he had that night, but there was no candy now. There were no costumes, there was no cheer. There was no feeling of rebellion. There was no joy this chilly October day, only a coldness that was both tangible and intangible. It surrounded them and chilled their hearts.

Licking chapped lips, the blonde glanced over at his friend, who had changed so much from that Halloween night years ago. His mischief had faded long ago, and the Elvis costume was in tatters from when he had ripped it to pieces a few weeks later in a fit of teenage rage. They had attempted to salvage it. ... well.. more Mark had tried to salvage it, nursing a bruise, while Roger slept it off, his head covered with a pillow. There was still a studded piece of fabric in the bottom of his drawer--Roger wasn't privy to the knowledge of it. If he had known..

Memories were like a drug. He knew this, and recognized himself as an addict, but he couldn't let Roger know. He'd worry. He'd be angry. Mark couldn't do that to them. He simply couldn't.

Clearing his throat, he looked away once more. "We're here."

Roger grunted noncommittally in response, turning and walking through the sliding glass doors that led into the hospital.

Arguments with the secretary and two visitor's passes later, the loftmates were trudging through the white, sterile hallways, each lost in his own thoughts. Every doors they passed looked exactly the same as the last and the next, save the dark numbers on their blinking white surface. Roger was ahead of him, eyes of intense green slipping over two-digit number as he searched for the room that was their destination. Finally he stopped, glanced back at Mark, and pushed open the door to room 77.

"Hey boys." A weak voice drifted from the bed, where a lesion-covered face was smiling at them. Mark immediately felt uplifted, just by that quiet, almost shy showing of a beautiful grin. A smile was so rare nowadays, when it used to be such a common occurrence, that he cherished each and every ghost of one, and a full out smile was enough to make him burst. He had been so sick lately that the majority of their visits were spent waiting for him to wake up.. which was a rarity. A precious moment. He was fading, skin growing paler day by day, before their very eyes, and they wanted their last time with him to be fulfilling.. but when Angel scarcely stayed awake long enough to hold a conversation of more than a few sentences, it was immensely hard, and -painful-.On those occasions, it was better to just say hello and leave, because remaining would only stress both themselves and their patient.

Today seemed to be a good day, though, and thus they made themselves at home.. or as home as one could be in a hospital, sitting near a dying friend.

"Hi Angel." They murmured in near unison, Roger leaning in for a short hug while Mark waved just a ways off. The rockstar had never been a touchy-feely person, but seeing a friend like this.. He couldn't help himself. It was an impulse. Whatever had caused it, though, made Angel extremely happy. It was obvious in the way his slightly tired smile grew, and remained large, even as Roger moved away. Angel had always had a way of brightening up even the darkest of rooms, even when hooked up to countless, incessently beeping machines and covered in diseased sores.

"How are you feeling?" Mark questioned, somewhat hesitantly, but the Hispanic man merely raised a hand and waved his apologetic face away, before offering another smile. Speech had become hard as well, and he tended to croak and crack if he used his voice too often, but had learned to regulate it well enough. It wouldn't be too much longer that he had to think about saving his breath anymore. The sad truth had hit them all hard when someone had let that little 'nugget of joy' slip. Collins' breath had hitched, and he had turned and walked away, saying nothing even reminiscent of 'good bye' or 'see you later'. He had said nothing, merely turning on his heel and returning to the hospital, leaving the other five standing out in the cold, freezing their fingers and toes off, shivering not from the cold autumn weather but rather from the ice inside. There was no Angel there to warm it with his smile, no Collins to melt it with his laughter..

The former would soon be gone for good, leaving a permanent empty spot in each and every one of them. But, for now, they would savor their last visits to the dying man who still managed a smile for them, warming them, even if it was only for a moment.

Idle conversation drifted between the three of them for two hours, touching on subjects that mattered little. How's your film, Mark? Oh, it's going great, Angel. I should be finished soon. Shut up, Roger. A knowing smile from the drag queen, who's eyes slid shut at that moment as he drifted off. Two hours was a long stretch for him, the both of them knew, but there was still a sense of disappointment clouding the air of the once sterile hospital room. The loftmates attempted idle chit-chat for very near a half hour before Roger simply stood, gave Angel one last look, and strode out the door, leaving a confused and concerned Mark behind. For many moments the blonde didn't move, merely tensing each and every part of his body and staring at the door, willing the other man to return and save him from his wicked parents, dressed in an Elvis costume..

No, Mark. You're getting your memories disorganized again. That was years ago, when the two of you were in high school and Roger was happy.

A rustling from the bed drew his attention from the door, thus causing his body to relax slightly, starting first with his neck and moving downward. There was a strange relief in just.. -letting go-.. but that reminded him of Angel's situation, and thus of April's, and he again tensed.

The one of them to survive. He couldn't let go.

"Hi Mark.." Came the murmured greeting from the Hispanic man, who's blemished lips had turned up into a quiet smile that quickly fell to a frown. "Where's Rog--" He dissolved into a coughing fit, and in moments the filmmaker was at his side, holding a half-filled plastic cup of lukewarm water to the other's lips, wishing that Collins were here. It wasn't that he was disgusted. No, far from that. He was afraid. Not of the disease, and not of Angel himself, but of passing some sort of disease that had attached itself to his clothing to the fading man who still managed to spark enough to remain a large part of their lives. He wouldn't allow himself to be forgotten before he was gone, no sir.

"He.. He started coughing, so he decided to go home. It's getting late, and it's not good for him to be out in the cold..." He finished lamely, knowing full well that Roger had been back at the loft for a good twenty minutes by now, probably hunched over his guitar, strumming out angry rifts and solemn notes. Angel only smiled knowingly, though, nodding as he swallowed the water with great difficulty. Mark returned to his seat, but now dragged it closer to the hospital bed, wanting to make the most of this bout of consciousness.

The useless, meaningless chitchat returned, but Angel seemed pleased by it. Pleased by the family he.. she.. had helped form and bring together.

Super glue. Angel was super glue. April was drugs and Angel was super glue.

Pathetic, mister artist.

"Mark." His attention snapped back to the man in bed, who was making an effort to sit up in order to grab his attention. Quickly, quickly he shook his head, reaching out and putting a hand on the other's shoulder, telling him, without words, that getting up was unecessary and that he was sorry for drifting off. Extremely sorry.

Settling himself back in the bed, the man merely smiled wearily, eyes half-closing. "I don't want you going anywhere." A cough. "Mentally or physically. You're needed here. .. Don't give me that look." His voice was growing raspy. A hand reached up to lightly press against the blonde's right temple. Mark seemed unsure.

"No matter what happens out here, or around you, you always have to stay together up here." A light tapping. "I know it can be hard.. but when I'm gone-" He moved the hand from the other's temple to his lips. "Shh. When I'm gone, they'll all need help. It will hurt, I know, but you have to stay.." His voice cracked horrible. "St... strong."

Mark was at a loss. He knew that Angel was dying, and he knew that their family would suffer greatly.. but he could not be the replacement super glue. He simply couldn't. The blonde could feel tears forming in his eyes as he realized the hopelessness of the situations, his hands clenching into weak fists in his lap. Strong? How was he supposed to remain strong when the others could crumble all around him? How was he supposed to not be allowed to -grieve-? He was just as human as the rest of them, and deserved the same right to grief, didn't he? The right to sorrow was being stripped from him moment by moment, by an Angel.

But that was just it. It was -Angel- asking him to do these things. Angel, who had done so much for them without even trying. She'd given Collins happiness, Mark and Roger warmth, Mimi friendship, Maureen an idol, Joanne a friend, Benny an antagonist. He could do this. He could give up just a little of his humanity for an Angel.

He felt fingers wiping gently beneath his glasses, ridding them of the tears that had built up and spilt over.

"Alright Angel. I'll be strong for them, and for you."

The smile that he received in response spoke more than words. A shadow of the former man was visible there, dressed in his santa suit and bringing a flame close to their frozen hearts, even through the pains that were Lift Support and eviction, and so much more. But the smile took energy, and soon it began to falter as he again began fading into sleep. The same hand that had wiped his tears away now took hold of his collar, pulling him, weakly, down, withering lips meeting a pale, prematurely lined forehead.

"Thank-you Marky."

x-x-x-x-x

... yeah.


	3. Chapter 3

Visits to You

Chapter Three

By: The Versatile Scarf

A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long. School is 'over', but my creative writing summer class is eating my brain. So I apologize in advance.

x-x-x-x-x

_Is this another time?  
Or is this the last time?  
How much more time?  
When will time take away my  
Visits to you?_

Benjamin Coffin III. 'Enemy' of Avenue A. Mark understood that he was just doing his job, he really did, but the manner in which he went about getting under their skin to dig up the nonexistant rent money had been what served to dehumanize him bit by bit, piece by piece. When he thought hard, the filmmaker could see strings coming out of their former roommate's hands, feet, and head, attached to an 'x' of wood held by the Grey family--Alison had an offshoot, her mother had another, and her father held two in his hands. All of them laughing, laughing as they controlled their sell-out of a puppet.

Mark had imagined such strings growing off of himself while he worked at Buzzline.

Even so, he had never seen Benny as the true 'enemy' of their little family. In fact, he was a part of it. He'd always been a part of it. No, their true enemy was the disease that lingered in Roger's, Mimi's, and Collins' bloodstream and threatened Maureen each time she left Joanne for some other person. Didn't she _understand_? was the question asked after every late-night rendevous with some Tom, Dick or Sherry. Apparently not, as she repeated the same thing the next week. But no, Benny was not their enemy.

He'd been an asshole. He'd been a dickwad. He'd been despised.

But he had not been their enemy--never Mark's, at least.

Until now.

The day was muggy; miserable. New York in the Summer was almost as bad as New York in the cold. It seemed that the weather was never kind to people who had no money for heating or cooling. The few birds squawking outside infuriated him, but he made no move from his place on the couch to quiet them. In all honesty, he wasn't sure if he could have even if he wanted to. He appeared to have fused to the couch sometime between lying down at ten this morning and whatever time it was now--seven, a glance at the clock told him, and then he remembered that the clock had been stuck at seven o'clock for the past three months. Perpetual evening. That was when the days got cooler, though, so he would have gladly accepted this time as the one he had to live at for the rest of his life.

And it was then that he realized how idiotic it was to fantasize over a world where there was no time while the sweat beading off of your forehead was a good way to gauge how much time passed. This one had reached his eye.

A curse. His arms dislodged from the couch with a small, slightly sickening sound associated with Summer and furniture. What he wouldn't give to be like Roger at this time--sleep the day away. He'd tried, thus giving reason to why he was laying stretched out on the couch, removing his glasses and wiping away beads of sweat from them and his forehead. Mark had attempted to sleep and had simply done nothing other than stare at the ceiling, fingers laced, joined hands on his chest, for hours. He was now moving for the first time in a good thirty minutes, and that was because a knock had come at the door. There was no way Roger would awaken from his heat-induced sleep to get it, so the blonde stood, cursing his lack of shorts--Winter required pants--and shuffling to the door.

Tell-tale sound of an industrial door sliding open, and who was standing before him but Benny, the man that only showed up to inquire after the rent once every two months, which didn't explain his visit now. The man had just been on their doorstep two weeks previous to this very day. However, he had looked much different then. Where two weeks ago he had been wearing a suit, he was now dressed in slacks and a t-shirt, worn and wrinkled. Where two weeks ago his face was smooth and smug, he seemed to have developed new lines and there was a pleading behind brown eyes, though he had yet to ask any questions. Where two weeks ago his stance was arrogant and confident, he now slouched terribly, hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his pants, looking years older than he was.

Mark, a tact-filled man, frowned and questioned, "What the hell happened to you?"

There was no humour in Benny's face. Normally he would smirk at any comment like that, simply replying 'I grew up', before proceeding to demand rent money. Today, on the other hand, he merely heaved a sigh.

"I don't have time to fuck around with you today, Mark. Or Roger, for that matter."

The blonde's eyebrows knit together in obvious confusion, before he stepped aside to allow the other in. The offer was denied with a curt shake of his head--once left, once right.

"I think it would be better if I stayed out here..." The man licked his lips almost nervously, before he withdrew his right hand from his pocket, extending a folded up envelope to the tenant. It was taken, and his hand returned to the pocket.

"I've just stopped by to tell you good-bye."

He went cold, holding the envelope tightly in his hand, not understanding. His lack of comprehension must have shown on his face, because his landlord heaved a sigh of regret and apprehension--he didn't want to say it. He had wanted it to be a quiet acceptance so he could just walk away and erase the filmmaker's face from his memory--he'd already been working on the other bohemians'.

Benny shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning his elbow against the doorframe.

".. I can't do this anymore. I can't watch from the sidelines, knowing that I could be one of you but also knowing I'd be as miserable as I am now, but seeing that you're a _family_. I can't watch you fade in front of me knowing that you still hold a grudge when you die. I can't watch Collins.. Mimi.. _Roger_.."

The man shook his head, turning away and discreetly wiping at his eyes, thus missing the fury that flared up in the cameraman's face. How _dare_ he speak of not being able to handle it. He hadn't been there for April; he'd already moved out. He paid for Angel's funeral; he could have cared less otherwise. And now, that weak _lump_ that called himself a man was whining about it to Mark. _Mark_, the one to outlive the rest of the group. The one who would be the constant at each bedside, holding their hands and knowing, knowing that he wouldn't be able to do that in three or four days time, because they would no longer be in that sterile hospital bed. They'd no longer be suffering, yes, but they wouldn't be _there_, and that would leave a gaping hole in the blonde's self.

For Benny, it was no more than a knick off of his shoulder. April had been even less. No skin off of his nose.

".. get out." Mark growled under his breath, hand tightening around the envelope he'd received.

"Mark, stop it. I came by to say good-bye and to tell you that your new landlord will be asking for rent soon, an--"

"Get _OUT_."

With a strength that a man of Mark's stature should not have possessed, he shoved the landlord toward the staircase. Benny seemed too taken aback to give any response other than an incredulous, disbelieving stare downward at the fireball ramming repeatedly into his chest. This. This was the part of Mark that could live with the knowledge that his best friends were dying and there was nothing about it. The part of Mark that could live with that knowledge and not completely lose his mind. The part of Mark he kept hidden by detaching as he did. And while he _did_ detach, he also took everything in and locked it inside, waiting for moments like these to release his pent-up rage and frustration on the nearest object.

Which, at this moment, happened to be a former friend.

"Cohen! I didn't want to end on a bad note! S-Stop, listen to me!"

"I refuse to listen to a yuppie sell-out like you, Benjamin, who believes that he has it so badly while watching his friends die off one by one. Who whines because the cable is out, or your wife came home late. Who whines because a measly rent check didn't come in from those 'artists' that you used to know."

They were dangerously close to the stairs now, and Mark gave one final shove that caused the other man to stumble down a few steps before catching himself.

"Now get out, and leave us in whatever peace we may still have."

A staring match ensued--once warm but now hardened brown against blazing blue hatred. The latter won hands down. Benny turned and continued down the steps, saying nothing. No last good-bye, no glance backwards for a final glimpse of his college buddy from back in their days at Brown, filled with dreams of success and wealth. One of them reached that goal, but which of them was happy?

It was long after he'd heard the door to the building close that Mark returned to the loft, sliding the door shut with a sort of finality. The envelope was still gripped tightly in his hand.

Hesitantly, and not really wanting to, he ran his finger underneath the place where it had been sealed, creating a jagged line of an opening. The envelope itself fell to the floor as he pulled out the contents--a check, covering this month's rent, next month's rent, and the month's after that, with a little extra thrown in for food and AZT, most likely.

"Money can't buy forgiveness." He muttered under his breath, before silently ripping it into tiny pieces of paper, making a pile in his hand, and then blowing lightly on it, causing the pieces to flutter in the air before coming to rest on the floor of the loft.

"What was that? Who're you talking to?"

Mark turned to see a very sleep-sated Roger, who, while wearing a smile, still managed to look inquisitive and mischeivious. Perhaps it was that impish look around his eyes.

"Nothing.." He looked back to the scattered pieces. "From nobody. Look, Rog.. We've gotta start pulling some money. We've got a new landlord."

The former rockstar frowned, but nodded his consent nonetheless, not questioning Benny's leaving. Perhaps it would be easier to forget him than he had originally thought.

"Mm.. 'kay. I've got a job interview in a few days.. I'll make sure to make a good impression. But for now, my main concern is coffee."

A grin pulled at the filmmaker's lips. Seven at night, or so the clock said, and he was craving coffee. "Get me a cup, please. Oh, and Rog?"

"Mm, yeah?" Came the yawned response from the kitchen.

"Take your AZT."

x-x-x-x-x A/N: Short, rushed, sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

Visits to You

Chapter Four

By: The Versatile Scarf

A/N: Completely hypothetical situation.

x-x-x-x-x

_Living with this  
Holding your hand  
Knowing I'll have to let go soon_

SwingTHUMP. SwingTHUMP. SwingTHUMP. Swi--

"Mark."

The legs stopped in mid-air, before slowly lowering with a soft 'whump' against the crate their owner was seated upon, ceasing their incessant swinging. Warm brown eyes crinkled up in silent laughter as the center of their attention flushed ever so slightly in embarrassment. The red creept up to his cheeks, and a muttered apology slipped past his lips. There was chuckling from the elder man, who shook his head in obvious amusement before he turned back to the mass of wires before him.

"Don't get your scarf in a twist. I'm just trying to concentrate."

Another day, another pill. Another week, another bottle. Another month, another trip to your local ATM machines, though they had had to expand their crime ring to other blocks--the security cameras that had been installed on the machines near the loft were concerning. In order to expanding their crime ring, Collins had expanded his vocabulary. The television, one of which they now had, thanks to the professor's contributions, had said something about a neighborhood crime watch--anyone entering the world 'A-N-G-E-L' onto the keypad was to be arrested immediately. Soon, words such as 'drums', 'drag', 'skirt', and 'coat' had been added to that list.

One would think that all of New York would be on alert for the culprit, placing cameras everywhere there may be an ATM, stationing police in strategic positions, ready to pounce on the criminal..

Apparently, nobody had remembered the machine in the basement of the small Laundromat in Brooklyn. Forgotten by the previous owners after the shop was boarded up for good. Through some of his students, he found out about the place--a place for squatters, addicts, and rebels alike. Through some of the residents, while taking a drag from a joint offered to him, he'd found out about the abandoned, dusty machine that rejected any and all credit cards shoved into it. An idea had sparked, thus giving reason to their being here at two in the morning, Collins kneeling before the panel of the machine, Mark seated on a nearby crate, hands between his legs, fingers curled over the edge, trimmed nails biting into the old wood.

They'd been here two hours already, and while Collins was assuring him that the end was near, the filmmaker was leaning towards disbelief. To him, it looked as though the man were repeating the exact same 'improvement', over and over again, and Mark was not ignorant when it came to such things. Wires and circuits haunted his dreams.

But he'd never seen anything like the maze before him previous to tonight. And, technically, he couldn't see it tonight. The dim lighting emitting from the cracked, chipped, almost burnt out light bulb barely provided enough light to see the stairs by. It reminded him of the night they'd decided to never pay rent again. The night that Roger had lit Mimi's candle. The night that Angel had come into their lives.. How they'd lit their loft with candles in an attempt to see anything or retain any semblance of heat. How that night had changed all of their lives, for the better. It had taken a while to recognize every change that occurred that night as a good thing, but in the end everyone had benefited. Since, though...

Since Angel's death, Collins had become.. manic. He'd gone on a rewiring spree, accumulating hundreds, even thousands after only a few months. Why he continued to steal, though, Mark did not know. In Angel's memory, perhaps? There were other ways to honor her. Lack of a better purpose? More likely, but it didn't seem plausible for Thomas Collins to feel lost in a world he understood far too well for anyone's own good. A world he spent the better part of any day resenting, and the other part thanking for ever getting to know his Angel. A complicated life in which he spent half running away and the other half embracing.

Needless to say, they had not seen much of their former roommate since the Christmas that Mimi had come back, miraculously, from the dead. He'd gone on to teach at other prestigious colleges around the country, making it out to UCLA for a short while, before returning to New York, Roger's words ringing true.

_But you'd miss New York before you could unpack.._

He'd come back, and that was when the whirlwind of crime had begun, as though he'd lost his direction in life without Angel. As though California had sucked out his drive. The rewiring had become an almost addiction, and now he'd drug the cameraman into his addiction, and Mark was suddenly, violently reminded of Roger, causing him to draw one leg up to his chest and his camera to his eye.

"Close on Collins, breaking the law yet again. What's going to happen when you get caught?"

He hadn't expected the sharp look in his friend's eyes. The silent that stretched out between them was broken only by the soft whirring of his camera as it recorded the lines on Collins' face, the sneer pulling at his lips, the sudden hatred in his eyes. It recorded his sudden falter, the collapse of his facial muscles beneath the weight of whatever he'd been carrying around for the past years. It recorded the fake smile that didn't come anywhere near his now depressed eyes.

"I'm not going to get caught, Mark."

The finality with which he said it caused a bucket of ice to drop into the blonde's lower intestine, causing the camera lens to press harder against his glasses, a nervous chuckle breaking the tense, stale air of the place for a moment, echoed by one of Collins' own before he went back to his work. The camera remained trained on his hunched form, creating an artificial barrier between its operator and his friend.

The silence that stretched was unbearable.

"... Collins." He finally interrupted, his voice cracking in the second syllable, causing a wince. His friend seemed not to notice. "Collins, I was wondering.." The camera was still rolling.

"Mhm?"

".. Why do you keep rewiring ATMs? You have enough money to last for.. for..."

"Forever, if I manage it?"

"Very nearly, yes." Mark conceded with an almost exasperated breath. He waited, biting the inside of his bottom lip, as Collins sat back on his heels, seemingly considering his choice of words, what Mark had asked, and the meaning of life. The blonde wouldn't be surprised if these were all going through his head at that very moment.

"To be safe."

A laugh. "Safe from what? What do you have to be--"

"Not me, Mark."

The whirring stopped, simultaneous with his breathing. Collins heaved a sigh, getting to his feet and placing a hand to his hip, suddenly grimacing. Mark made a move to get up, but the other merely raised his hand, signalling 'stop' without words.

"This money isn't for me. I've been as happy as I ever could be, and money won't help me. It's for you and Roger."

"C-Collins..."

"For Roger's AZT. So you'll eat without worrying about paying the rent. So your idea of a Christmas present next year isn't having power, heat, and running water." He had approached some time during this speech, and was now placing a hand on the other's head, smiling sadly. "You boys need to be happy. Mimi needs to be happy. Joanne's got enough money to support Maureen, so I want you to worry about _yourself_ for once, alright?"

He could only nod obediently while Collins patted him on the head, returning to the ATM. The panel was shut, the code was punched in, and out came a stack of twenties, which he silently handed to the blonde.

Mark didn't understand. Why was he talking like this? Why was he suddenly stocking up on money, which was apparently for _them_?

"Oops.. I forgot something."

His head snapped up, blue eyes locking on the professor as he removed the panelling once more, holding something tightly in his right hand.

"Forgot something? But, Collins... The mo--"

He never finished. He merely watched in horror as a large, normally careful hand dove into the mass of wires, ripping, the thing in his right hand thrust toward the exposed so-called guts of the machine.

A terrible, terrible short-circuiting sound emitted from the mass he had his hand in, and yet the man made no sound as numerous volts of electricity ran rampant through his form. The light flickered in a seizure-inducing manner, before finally shorting out. Mark had been the one screaming.

"COLLINS! COLLINS!"

The sound of an empty water bottle clattering to the floor.

"COLLINS!"

x-x-x-x-x

end.


	5. Chapter 5

Visits to You

Chapter Five

By: The Versatile Scarf

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my creative writing class. The inspiration came from my writing another story for that class.. though I didn't actually use this idea in that story. It's funny how things work out, hm?

Seeing as they've been plugging my stories left and right, go check out Ethiwen's "Tango Lessons" for a good laugh with a healthy pinch of drama, or if you're a Roger fan go check out AngstyRebel's "The People I Hated"--it's heart-wrenching. As always I'm writing for myself, though the reviews are very much appreciated. It's good to know that people are reading. So, for the first time, but certainly not the last, thank-you.

A more light-hearted chapter. Just remember that it follows the pattern of the other chapters.

x-x-x-x-x

_Living right now  
And right now  
And right now  
Knowing I'll soon be without you._

"Mark, here. It's kicking." A dark hand was moved as a much lighter one replaced it, resting lightly on the bulge beneath the thin hospital blanket. Swift jolts of pressure against his palm caused a flighty, nervous laugh to escape him, quickly retracting his hand, as though he were afraid of hurting the unborn , though nearly there, child nine months in her womb. His reaction caused the Hispanic woman to give a laugh of her own, the hand quickly returning to its place on her stomach, as though it were a completely natural part of her body.

"Believe me, it's hurting me much worse than you think you're hurting it."

There had been no denying Mark's rather fidgety behaviour since the night he had returned to the loft, shuddering and shivering, twin trails of dried tears on his cheeks two months ago. Roger and Mimi had been seated on the couch, their hands entwined atop her stomach, focused on the fuzzy picture they received, quiet content showing on their faces. That had lasted until the blonde collapsed on the couch beside Mimi, nearly clutching her, though his expression was stony. He would say nothing about the reasoning behind his state, instead silently demanding that they watch and enjoy the program on television. Mimi had found it hard to enjoy the show with a man's hand clutching at the material of her shirt and wrapped in a strand of her curly hair.

That had been two months ago. Since then they had attended the funeral for Thomas Collins', happy that he was now with Angel, but missing his presence with a tangible pain. The pain that came with Roger's cough, which had left, Mimi's pregnancy pains, another fight of Maureen and Joanne's, and the haunted dreams that had been invading Mark's sleep ever since, causing him to lose countless hours of sleep. They had moved on as well as people could in such a situation, looking from the past to the future that Mimi's coming baby held in its tiny fist.

Today was the day their future was to be delivered, if Mimi's frequent bouts of contractions had anything to say about it. However, they already had been in the hospital for nearly thirteen hours, taking shifts of sitting at Mimi's bedside, keeping her company and distracted from the current situation. It was the middle of the night, and thus Maureen, Joanne, Roger, and Mark kept slept for periods of time before waking up and moving back to the girl's room, allowing another to take over. Roger had fallen asleep maybe twenty minutes ago, leaving Mimi still energized from his visit. There was a sparkle in her eye that only appeared when she was around the love of her life, lasting into her boyfriend's best friend's visit.

"What are you going to name it?" Mark inquired, eyes locked on the bulge that her once flat stomach had become. It was hard to believe that out of so much anguish could come new life. Collins, just two months previous, and now another life had taken form before their very eyes. When Mark attempted to fathom it he found himself dumbstruck, much as the great philosophers who lived before any of them had been born had probably felt. The miracle, and yes, it was a miracle, of childbirth was something that human beings would never fully understand. The science of it had become public knowledge, but there were so many aspects that people only grazed when attempting to grasp it.

Mimi stared down at her stomach for a long while, saying nothing, beautiful lips curled into the content smile that only soon to be mothers can manage, before replying.

"If it's a girl, we're going to name her Carmen. After my mama." The nickname came out completely naturally, and a new glitter appeared in her gorgeous, even though they were slightly weary, eyes. "If it's a boy, we're going to name him Thomas." Those same eyes now turned to Mark, gauging his reaction to the news. Despite the ordeal he had gone through, he looked unfazed, nodding in complete agreement.

"He'd be honored." The young man murmured, carefully reaching out and laying his palm against the blanket, again feeling those short bursts of pressure, though these ceased soon after they began, and he laughed once more, though the nervousness had faded from the sound. A genuine sort of pride began taking root, though he had no relation to the child that would be arriving soon. That didn't matter. They were a family, blood relation or not, and thus he felt like an uncle, eagerly awaiting the coming of his niece or nephew, overflowing with impatience and hesitation.

The hesitation sprung from the doctor's wary looks every time he glanced at Mimi's hips, her slightly emaciated form, and her t-cell count. The warning that she might not come out of this as well as she was when she went in, which wasn't all that well in the first place. The knowledge that the baby would probably be HIV positive, constantly with a black cloud over its head that came in the form of its own cocktail that it would start taking from the day it was able to swallow pills. There was, of course, the slim chance that it would escape the virus, but the chance was _so_ slim that they had completely discounted it. Both parents positive? If the baby was negative, then the impossible truly had happened. The doctor hadn't even tried to cheer up the parents through use of the old standby--'There's a chance that your child may be negative'. The two had done their research and read that it _could_ happen, but in parents who had had the disease as long as they had.. it would be better to not get their hopes up.

They hadn't.

Mimi's face contorted in pain as another wave of spasms gripped her lower half, causing her hand to shoot out and grab hold of Mark's wrist in a near bone-crushing hold, her eyes squinted shut, bottom lip between her teeth, a low moan accompanied by heavy breathing forcing its way through her teeth.

"Breathe, Mimi. In, out, in, out." The filmmaker attempted, though his own voice was laced with a slight panic. Was it time? Was the baby coming now? He was completely ready to leap to his feet and run for a doctor should the need arise, and the need seemed to be arising at this very moment. He was halfway out of his chair when the hold finally relaxed, and the woman exhaled heavily, a curse slipping out with her breath.

"F-False.. alarm.." She panted, releasing him completely and smiling with a new exhaustion. "I swear, this baby's going to kill me before it ever arrives."

Her laughter, forced as it was, faltered as she took in the blonde's face. There was repressed horror there, overcome by a blankness that chilled her.

"I was kidding, Mark."

"Don't ever talk like that, Mimi."

"I'm sorry."

When had the conversation taken a turn for the worse? Mimi hated this new, darker side to their friend. She hated knowing that Mark had seen something that would scar him the rest of his life. No. Mark had seen _many_ things that would scar him for the rest of his life. Where did he draw his strength from? How could he remain the anchor while the people surrounding him were caught in a whirlpool? Ho--

Her train of thought was stopped abruptly as a new set of spasms gripped at her. These ones.. these ones were -different-.

"Mark.. Mark, it's coming."

She witnessed the widening of his eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, and the way the chair fell to its side as he scrambled away from it and toward the door. Dainty, childish hands gripped at the blankets covering the hospital bed as she tried to control her breathing, hearing Mark's yells as he raced down the hall toward the waiting room.

"ROGER! ROGER! GET YOUR ASS UP, YOU'RE GOING TO BE A FATHER!"

x-x-x-x-x


	6. Chapter 6

Visits to You

Chapter Six

By: The Versatile Scarf

A/N: ... yes. most everyone dies. I tried to not be blunt about it, but they do. Thus, Mimi had to go as well. It amuses me that she's the first character that people were like "OMG DON'T KILL THEEEMMM" about. This fic is nearing its end. Six out of eight chapters. I never expected it to get this far. Uhmm... so, thank-you, all reviewers, alerters, readers.

This chapter is dedicated to Amaen. Because it's her birthday. :D

x-x-x-x-x

_Is this another time?  
Or is this the last time?  
How much more time?  
When will time take away my visits..._

When Mark had walked into the apartment, he'd gasped aloud. Barren. It was almost completely empty, aside from a couch, a dining table, and various kitchen appliances. It was all.. _gone_.

"Boston...?"

"Mhm. Joanne got a job opening there. She'll be the top lawyer of some great firm or something. I don't know." The curly-haired woman shrugged her scantily clad shoulders in her ignorance of where her life was now taking her. "She just said, 'Maureen, Maureen! I'm going to Boston!' and I said 'Well.. I'm going with you!'" A brilliant smile was shot over her shoulder at the shell-shocked man standing behind her, looking horribly small as he clutched a wrapped up bundle to his chest, eyebrows slanted upward in a questioning manner, disbelief etched over the premature lines forming on his pallid visage.

Boston? Boston Massachusetts? But..

".. Good for her." The right corner of his lips quirked upward ever so slightly, but everything else about his face was radiating a denial. They couldn't be leaving. They could _not_ be leaving to Boston fucking Massachusetts because of a new job. It was merely a.. a vacation. Or to check the job out. Or to see how she'd like it there and then they'd come back because Joanne absolutely hated it. ".. When will you be back?"

Maureen was startled by how terrified he sounded, but when she looked back at him from her packing once more, he was grinning ever so slightly, and none of it looked forced.

"Marky, baby.. We're not coming back." She smiled as well, though it was unsure. "We've already bought a house out there and changed our mailing address. Oh, by the way, which is--" She scuttled from the room, in search of a pen and paper, which always seemed to elude whoever needed them at a particular moment. Or had they already been packed?

Mark had to sit down _now_, so he chose the bed, keeping himself from merely collapsing upon it for the baby's sake. Roger would barely look at the boy, let alone take care of him. The guilt that radiated off of the musician whenever he heard little Thomas crying had drenched the loft. The walls were nearly bursting with shame, and Mark had needed to get out. He was suffocating in there, and the baby rarely stopped crying. It was as though he perceived his father's hatred for him that wasn't really hatred. It didn't matter that the man dared not even go near the baby. His bad feelings had somehow made their way to his sleeping form, haunting him with horrible nightmares that wouldn't cease until Mark stood and woke him, holding the baby close to his chest, making soft noises to calm the then hiccuping form.

It was that way that he had been wrenched from sleep this morning. He'd nearly leapt from bed, slamming his glasses onto his face and moving toward the crib.. to find Roger already standing there, trying so hard to soothe the child without touching him. His fingers hovered near the skin, a hue darker than his own, but could not touch. He'd begun yelling then, at himself and at the world, his words becoming no more than howls as he dropped to his knees, clutching the edge of the crib tightly, his anguish mixing with Thomas's.

Mark had left the other man curled in his bed, blankets pulled up to his chin, shivering. He had to get out. He had to get out of the loft and away from this distress. Try to escape how horrible he felt each time he walked through the sliding door. So he'd gathered up Thomas Davis and hurried to the only place he had left--Maureen and Joanne's--to find that that was being taken from him as well.

Blue eyes remained locked on the floor as Maureen returned, a piece of paper with three rows of neat writing on it. "I got the address for you. We'll write whenever we can, and you should too, okay?"

"Uh-huh." He responded as he reached out for the scrap, shoving it in his pocket with the knowledge that Maureen would never call and they'd never receive a letter as they had no actual address. A mailbox for which there was no home attachment, no mailman to deliver anything to the loft, no money for a P.O. box. Maureen knew all of this very well, or had she forgotten the squalor in which they still lived? Had she forgotten the squalor in which _she_ had once lived? It must have been forced from her mind, replaced by this upper-class, well-furbished apartment she shared with Joanne while Mark and Roger suffered, with a two-month old, in the loft.

The money Collins had left them was spent carefully, but rent was now a necessity. Their new landlord was extremely strict about that. But other than that, their expenses included Roger's AZT, Mimi's hospital bills, and Thomas's needs. Still, with the small fortune they'd acquired, they lived nothing like Maureen did. Mark had constantly wondered if Maureen's attraction to Joanne was only to her money, especially after living as she had for so long. Her not so seldom cheating certainly caused the question to arise in his mind, but he always forced it away. He forced thinking such horrible things about Maureen away, because it wasn't right of him. If they weren't meant to be together, then they weren't meant to be together. If he wasn't right for Maureen, then he wouldn't go after her because of his own petty needs. She was happy now. It had been almost a month since the couple's last break-up, and thus they were doing 'well' in the family's opinion.

Which basically meant his. Roger was too distraught to have an opinion anylonger.

That was because Roger was dying.

"So you'll make sure to at least send me a few letters, right?" The woman pursed lips painted the most passionate red at the blonde, placing her hands on her hips and leaning in, eyebrows raised together. "Hello, Mark! Stop dreaming!" The flick between his eyes was probably what brought him back to life after his zoning. That or the squirming in his arms and a soft cry.

Mark's eyes snapped down, meeting the greenish ones of the child below him, who was just awakening from his nap, long eyelashes fluttering as he blinked awake. The child already had wisps of dark hair growing sprouting from the top of his head, and his smile was already Mimi-esque. It hurt whenever he giggled his childish giggle, and the filmmaker usually found himself short of breath. He was such a perfect mixture of Roger and Mimi that it left him spinning, hands gripping the nearest piece of furniture for grounding.

"Shh, shh Thomas." But the baby seemed set on making as much noise as it possibly could. Its cupid's bow lips opened in a wail, even as Mark attempted to pacify it. After a few moments, Maureen quickly scooped the child from his grasp, holding it close to her chest.

"Babies like women. It's instinct. You're upsetting him! Go! Shoo! Talk to Joanne or something!"

So, dejected, Mark left the room containing a cooing, baby-talking drama queen. Just what was he supposed to do? He felt horribly out of place in the spotless, empty apartment. He felt horribly small and yet humongous at the same time, as though if he were to take a step his elbows would scrape against the walls and his head would hit the ceiling, but if he didn't move the vacuous room might just swallow him up. He felt dizzy. His glasses were removed and two fingers went to the bridge of his nose, pinching hard as he attempted to get a grip on reality. He'd fucking come here to find an escape and had only fallen into a greater pain. Just when had Maureen and Joanne planned on telling them that they were moving? There had been talk of a possible job offer, but nothing about Boston, nothing about going away, nothing about killing the family further.

When he opened his eyes again a dark blur was.. was it peering at him? His eyes narrowed as he slid his glasses back on and found Joanne standing there, holding a box between her hands, intense, near-black eyes locked on him, concern evident.

"Are you all right, Mark?"

"I'm.. I'm fine. Really." Unfortunately, the shake behind his voice was not all that convincing, and Joanne was a lawyer. She embodied all that his parents had wanted him to become and had not. If he had become a lawyer he may have developed a better talent for lying, perhaps. Or for detecting lies, as the woman seemed to be doing at the moment. Her calculating, searching gaze caused a creeping, uncomfortable feeling to start at the base of his spine, inching slowly upward until a cold blossomed at the back of his head and a shudder followed the path his discomfort had moments before. Something about her being his ex's new squeeze was.. it made him feel below her. Maureen had chosen _her_ over him, and thus that made her better in some way.

There went his inferiority complex talking again..

"You don't seem fine. Come on, sit down." Beckoning him with a bare hand, so much unlike Maureen's gaudy, decorated one, the two of them took seats on the opposite ends of the couch, and Mark found his fingers digging into the soft grey cushioning without conscious effort. Why so tense? The room still looked as though it would just disappear from beneath him and he'd fall the eighteen stories to the ground, and the only thought that would go through his mind would be 'Who will remind Roger to take his AZT?'

"Mark!"

"Oh, sorry." He made a dismissive hand gesture, emphasizing the fact that his mind had been drifting. He wouldn't make eye contact.

"Just what's the matter with you? You're.. You're so out of it." And he had always been the most grounded of them. "Ever since Co--"

"Don't. Just please don't."

"... You've just been so distant, Mark. Maureen and I are worried about you." Much to her surprise, this drew a bark of laughter from the blonde who quickly reddened upon realizing that that had been aloud.

".. I'm.. I'm sorry, it's just.. Maureen can barely see past her own eyelashes. I sincerely doubt that she's been all that worried about me. Honestly, she didn't even tell me you were leaving until five minutes ago."

".. she _didn't_?"

Mark shook his head, drawing a sigh from Joanne that sounded as though she held the weight of the entire world on her shoulders. Mark knew from experience that Maureen's so-called 'baggage' sometimes weighed _more_ than the rest of the world.

"I'm sorry, Mark. I.. I honestly thought that you knew. She told me she was going to tell you..." A hand was dragged from her forehead to her chin before it fell back to her side. "She gave you the address, right?" At the nod she continued. "That's the apartment we've already bought, so it's the correct one. When we get there we'll give you a call. I'm not entirely sure of what the phone number is going to be yet, but I'll tell you when I call."

Mark knew she would never call.

"Marky baby. I think Thomas is getting hungry." Maureen drifted into the front room, holding the baby before her. Those same green eyes locked onto the blonde and a hand reached out, his tiny fists grasping at air. "He won't stop crying."

So the baby again changed hands, settling easily into the crook of the blonde's elbow, his eyes fluttering shut as the filmmaker lightly brushed wisps of hair from his brow.

"I'd probably better get going." Roger would be waking up soon, and Mark was determined to not let him be alone for too long. He was.. _fragile_. "All right, Mark." Joanne gave him an awkward hug around the baby, and Maureen followed suit, pressing her lips to his cheek for good measure. When she pulled away a distinct redness was there--her lipstick. It stung.

The door was pushed open for him and he stepped out, raising a hand in parting as he started toward the elevator, balancing the precious bundle as he watched their door close with a last call of 'We'll call!'

Mark knew neither of them would. It would be on their to-do list, they'd talk about it.. but they wouldn't call. The family was destroyed, and they had been growing more and more distant after Collins' death. By moving they were breaking off the ties they had to Mark and Roger. That was all their family had become. Mark and Roger.

".. We'll be just fine on our own, Thomas." He murmured, though the baby squirmed uncomfortably in his arms, a frown on his somewhat dark, cherubic face, tiny fists coming up to wipe a droplet of water that had dripped onto his cheek. "Just fine."

x.x.x.x.x

Shorter than other chapters. Not all that good. It just needed to be written.


	7. Chapter 7

Visits to You

Chapter Seven

By: The Versatile Scarf

A/N: Last chapter was, basically, an intermediary chapter. I guess it left people without the sense of.. finality that the other chapters did. I really don't know.

x-x-x-x-x

_And when you go  
Where you're going  
Where will you be going?  
I know I'll keep going  
On my visits to you_

He'd imagined a steady beep-beep-beep from a machine situated next to a hospital bed. He'd imagined painfully white walls and too-perky nurses whom you just wanted to shoot in the face, giving the room 'a little color'. He'd imagined flowers surrounding aforementioned bed, balloons tied to the handles of the baskets they resided in, spreading out over the room and spilling into the neighbor's area, though the neighbor didn't mind. He'd imagined the figure in the bed to be sick, but in good spirits. He'd imagined that the background music would be something soothing and melancholy, though with a dark undertone, foreshadowing the inevitable demise of the patient.

And then he'd remembered that life was not a movie.

The beep-beep-beeping machine was present, yes, but little else remained the same as he'd imagined it to be. The room was a pleasant, sickening light blue, and there was no neighbor to smile sweetly at the nonexistent flowers. AIDS patients were kept alone.

"Fuck.. go home, Mark."

He said nothing, but the pale hands situated in his lap gave a twitch, the only acknowledgement that the one in the bed would receive. His visitor had just woken up from an uncomfortable nap in the single chair sitting beside the bed. There was no need for any other chairs--Thomas wasn't yet old enough to sit on his own, and there was no one else to inhabit another chair. Thus, there was only the bed and the cold blue and steel chair.

"Aren't you supposed to be picking him up soon?"

"I've got another thirty minutes."

It panged him horribly to hear how hard it was for Roger to speak, but he didn't want him to stop. It was almost sadistic, he knew, but he feared that he'd be completely lost if not for the perverted familiarity of the rockstar voice. Though he rasped and gasped with each word, Mark felt shivers travel up and down his spine whenever he caught sound of the shadow of the voice that had once sent fangirls screaming and grabbing at his pant legs while the star's best friend sat in the back of the club, camera to his eye, a soft chuckling escaping him as Roger literally kicked at the horde of females while continuing to sing.

Needless to say, the story had been shared a number of times, but never in polite company. The aftermath of Roger -missing- one of the girls, who just happened to be missing a shirt, had not been pretty, to say the least. Nor had the vomit stains that had taken three cycles through the nearby laundromat's washing machine to get out, but it was a fond memory nonetheless.

If only fond memories lasted into times like this. Times where you just held your breath every time you screened, certain that this call would be the one that caused you to stop holding your breath every time the phone rang but would leave a gaping hole in your heart.

".. he looks just like her, doesn't he?"

"What?" Mark questioned, startled into speaking, breaking the silence that he'd been working on for the past five minutes while Roger's fingers twitched against the guitar held lightly in his lap, unable to play more than a few notes without shifting the entire thing, his right hand nearly immobile with the various IVs extending from beneath his skin. The only purpose they served was to keep him alive for a few more days and add to the holes and scars already present on the pale, sallow skin that hung limply from his skeleton, muscles ravaged by the disease no longer there to add some sort of shape to the limbs. His once perfectly formed musician's body had diminished over time, leaving little to be sought after by his absent fans. They'd all either overdosed or moved on by now. Perhaps a few had even followed April's example, however horrible it was. Suicide brought immortality in those rings.

"Thomas. He looks just like Mimi."

It was so matter of fact, so blatant, that the blonde could not find it in himself to respond. He wanted to just explode into details. Details of how, yes, yes, the boy looked so much like Mimi it hurt, but he had Roger's eyes and lips, and his nose was the perfect mixture of them both, a button on his sandalwood skin, but even though his lips were Roger's his smile was so painfully Mimi's that his throat closed up each time he turned it in his direction. He wanted to say all of these things, but all he could do was nod, reaching up to lightly massage around his adam's apple, turning his gaze away from the shattered man before him.

And yet, through all this, Mark also wanted to scream that Roger hadn't looked at the boy for two consecutive seconds since the day he was born. He wanted to shove the toddler in his face and point out just how _wrong_ that statement was. It had almost been a relief, the day Roger was checked into the hospital. He no longer had to hide Thomas in his room whenever the musician emerged from his own, stepping into the light streaming in through the large windows, thus denying the baby of it. It was an unspoken agreement in the loft--wherever Roger was, Thomas was not. One of the three parties involved in this had been unhappy with it, though conceded to its necessity, while the second of the three parties merely giggled and gurgled in his babyish way, pressing tiny hands against the window, upset only when pulled away from this freedom with the arrival of the third and final party. They had spent maybe five minutes in a room together before Roger stormed out, giving no reason for his sudden departure.

It had been for this reason that Mark had spent an entire day looking for a nearby daycare center, all the while hating the idea of leaving the child with strangers for so long but knowing that he couldn't take him into the hospital room. Roger may just rip himself apart while trying to get away from his son.

Wasn't that a disgusting thought?

A few stray notes drifted through the empty, oppressive silence. The air in the room suddenly felt as though all of the oxygen had been sucked out, leaving two frail figures behind, just waiting for their lungs to collapse. Only the filmmaker seemed affected by this sudden change, but that could be because Roger was hooked up to a respirator.

"Why do you hate him?" Mark finally blurted out, his hands clenching around his knees, unable to keep his mouth shut any longer. Immediately he regretted the question as tired aquamarine eyes turned toward him, locking him in a gaze as intense as their owner could muster. He recoiled, bringing one of his legs up beneath him, hands moving from his knees to each other, gripping so tightly that the knuckles turned paper-white. He didn't want to upset Roger. The doctors had advised against any excitement, and this might just be the conversation they were supposed to avoid.

"Hate who?"

"You know exactly who I'm talking about." He murmured in response, resenting the note of defensiveness in Roger's voice. Sure, play the ignorant. Act as though you haven't barred your son from your life, thus cutting off any connection you may have had to Mimi after her death.

Mark waited for the response that had to come, his cold blue eyes unmoving, even as Roger squirmed, as much as he could, uncomfortably beneath it. The musician finally settled on staring off, seemingly focused on the window, though his eyes held a faraway look. They'd known each other long enough for the filmmaker to recognize a moment of deep contemplation--hazy eyes, tight jaw, curled fingers. It was a good minute before he relaxed, gaze sliding back to Mark before flickering to the ceiling, where it remained as he spoke with a new strength, sending a new wave of shivers running relays up and down his spine.

".. I don't hate him."

"Could have fooled me.."

"Shut the fuck up, Mark."

His response was silence.

"I don't hate him. I'm.." He inhaled through his teeth, the hissing noise momentarily overpowering the beep-beep-beep. ".. _afraid_ of him. He.. He killed Mimi. _I_ killed Mimi, Mark. He's my f-fault." A violent coughing fit cut him off, and Mark felt himself growing sick at the sound of the liquid in Roger's lungs, but remained where he was, knowing that the other absolutely detested needing and or receiving help. He remained most self-sufficient, even in this state.

"Mimi made a choice, Roger." Once the coughing fit had ended he resumed the conversation, his statement completely heartfelt. Mark had no use for those weak pick-me-ups like 'It'll be alright!' or 'It wasn't your fault!' He'd faced the terrible truth of the disease for too long to manufacture bullshit responses. In the beginning, perhaps, but after losing so many people he knew that owning up to the reality was the only way to survive the disappointment that came with each death.

"She wanted an abortion, Mark." He whispered, turning his haunted gaze toward the filmmaker. "She wanted an abortion and I _promised_ her that if she took her AZT every day that he'd be negative, and that we'd be fine and he'd live to a ripe old age." He was nearly gasping now, his strength having faded beneath the weight of this new information. New to Mark, anyway. Perhaps the strength had come _from_ the weight on his shoulders, and now, as it slipped away from him, he grew weaker and weaker. "I.. I just wanted a baby so badly.." His teeth grit and his eyes closed against the water threatening to spill over and down his cheeks.

As a hand slipped into his, aquamarine eyes slid open to see pale digits wrapping around his own. His gaze travelled up the arm, across a covering shoulder, up a neck adorned with silver beads, past a hairless chin and up a wet streak to meet Mark's own.

"She still made a choice, Roger. You didn't control her. Some part of her must have wanted him as well." He discreetly wiped at his face with his free hand, inhaling deeply and regretting yet another action. Roger couldn't do that. His breathing was labored and painful. Taking a deep breath was near impossible now.

The musician did not show any signs of being offended by this, though. In fact, he looked as though he were no longer a part of this conversation, a sudden dawning taking over his features and thus lighting them up, even if only for a moment. It was then that Mark knew that portion of Roger's inner turmoil had come to rest, clearing the storm overhead enough for a light to shine through.

There was a lull in conversation, filled again by disjointed notes from the guitar, played by a now peaceful guitarist. The blonde said nothing, his eyes merely sliding shut after a glance at the clock. Ten minutes until he had to leave. The center was nearby, thus giving him more time to be with Roger. He never knew if it would be the last chance he got to talk to the man, and wanted to make every moment of it count. To some, a silence may seem like a waste of time, but between this particular pair of friends it meant the world. Some of their best times had been passed in such a quiet. Songs had been written and scripts had been finished in this setting.

So it came as a great surprise to Mark when Roger interrupted it.

"What are you going to do, Mark?"

"... Well.. Move somewhere with a nicer school, maybe. Get a job. The money from Collins only holds out so long. Maybe I--"

"That's all good, Marky, but what are _you_ going to do?"

".. I don't think I get what you're asking.."

The sigh heaved conveyed Roger's frustrations quite well, though there was a kindness behind it that may not have been there if he was not lying in a hospital bed on the verge of death.

"... Remember, when I left for Santa Fe, how I said that you were alone?" A nod. "... I don't want you to be alone, Mark. You'll have Thomas, but he's just a kid. I want you.. I want you to find someone, Mark. Someone who makes you happy, okay?" Roger didn't like the hesitant look on the other's face. "You can't die alone. You may be the one of us to survive, but that doesn't mean you can't find a new family. No, not find. Make one. You already have Thomas."

".. I don't know if I can, Roger." His voice was terribly small and barely audible over the incessant sounds of the hospital room.

"You _can_. You can do a lot more than you think you can, Mark. Just remember that, and remember us." He gave a lopsided, sad smile. "Now, isn't it time for you to pick up Thomas?"

Mark glanced at the clock, blinking slowly. "Oh.. I guess it is time for me to pick him up.." There was regret in his tone, but he managed a smile as he turned back to Roger. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"Of course." And, as they hugged, the musician breathed in deeply. ".. Bring him with you tomorrow, all right?"

The filmmaker was startled, but as he pulled back he nodded, the nervous grin fading into a true smile. He gathered his camera bag, moving toward the door. As he waved goodbye, he nodded once more. "All right, Rog. See you tomorrow."

And yet, when he walked through the sliding door of the loft twenty minutes later, Thomas on his hip, he had a great sinking feeling. The boy was set down, and he moved toward the kitchen area.

He was halfway there when the phone began ringing.

Holding his breath, he turned to face the machine.

"SPEAK."

x-x-x-x-x


	8. Chapter 8

Visits to You

By: The Versatile Scarf

Chapter 8

A/N: So. It's finally come to an end. To tell you the truth it saddens me. For all this story gnawed at my mind I'm going to miss it. A -lot-. I'm considering doing a spin-off in which Thomas does not survive, but.. it will have to take a back seat to my other(seven) projects. I'm also considering doing a parody of myself, but again, that's very doubtful. Hilarity can wait, damnit.

Thank-you to reviewers and readers alike. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside to see that this has so many views, at the very least. Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you.. And please check out my next project, Ready for You Thanks!

x-x-x-x-x

_Is this another time?  
Or is this the last time?  
How much more time?  
When will time take away my visits.._

_Is this another time?  
Or is this the last time?  
How much more time?  
When will time take away..  
When will time take away..  
When will time take away my_

Deja vu, only instead of being seated beside the hospital bed, resenting the false happiness that the walls exuded, he was stretched out beneath the thin, starched, bleached blankets that only succeeded in emphasizing his now nearing skeletal figure.

_God Damnit, Mark, you are _not _getting just fries again._

He'd been here a week. The doctors had deemed it unsafe for him to walk around his own home. Brittle bones broke easily, especially when the owner of aforementioned bones already had a degenerative tumor growing within his lungs and brain. His finger gave an audible 'crack' as he curled it around the stack of photographs before him, thumbing one up and away and thus moving it to the back of the pile, gripping as tightly as he could manage. Arthritis had long since viciously ravaged the joints in his hands, making it near impossible to operate his camera well--the shaking had caused every frame to be slightly different from the first, creating a steady vibration when the film was played back at full speed.

Fifty-five and he was already in such horrible shape.

_Happy Birthday, Mark! ... fuck, you're getting old. What are you now, twenty-one? Shit, soon you'll be losing your hearing--sight's already gone. I said SIGHT'S ALREADY GONE._ Another picture slipping past with a quiet sound--Thomas, five years old, and holding tightly to the woman he had come to know as his mother. Mark didn't even pause at this picture, merely continued to the next.

_You're stuck in the past! Aren't those people all _dead

That _woman_.. So much like Maureen. Perhaps that was what had drawn him to her? Drawn him into the pit that this fiery, curly-haired woman had created? Oh, I don't want children, but I'll be happy to take care of your little boy. Miss 'Responsible'? Miss 'Faithful'? Maureen had never been very responsible, nor faithful, but, while having a great passion, she had been compassionate as well. Until the very end, at least. The very, very end. Boston, they'd said? Something like that? If they'd gone there, they hadn't remained long. It was only five years after Roger's death that he'd gone to look for them, and there was no sign. Joanne's parents had moved on as well, following the path of so many others, and the lawyer had disappeared without a trace, taking her money and 'honeybear' with her.

Benny, supposedly, had taken his wife to the West Coast. So ironic, wasn't it? The man had always spoken mightily to both Mark and Roger--You must face your problems! Running away or ignoring them will do no good!

What a laugh, calling detaching 'ignoring'.

The photograph of Maureen yelling at Benny was placed at the back of the stack.

"Mr. Cohen? Would you like me to take those from you? Oh.. Oh, I understand, you're not done. No, no, don't try to speak. It's all right, I understand. Can you reach your table? Just put them there when you're done."

The click-clacking of the nurse's high-heeled shoes faded as she moved onto another room. Baffling, it was. When he'd sat beside his dying friends in the various hospital rooms he'd encountered, he'd always been impressed by the personal level on which the nurses connected with their patients. Collins had just laughed at him when he'd commented on it, and it had taken him until now to realize how false their smiles and questions were. They were just like telemarketers--false happiness, how-do-you-do-today, concern. All fabricated.

Mark had to admit. They were wonderful actors.

_The world isn't a movie, Mark. It takes work. You should be studying--we have a final tomorrow. Or had you forgotten? No, I didn't think so. Come here, I'll quiz you._

A breath he didn't realize he'd been holding escaped in a hiss from between slightly clenched teeth and parted lips. Breathing had become much harder as of late.

It was a miracle what a camera could capture and place in a photograph. Little things, such as the way Roger's face was half-shrouded in the shadow of the building he was leaned against, or the way one could just tell that he was about to smile--the crinkles around his eyes and lips gave him away--, or the barrier of cigarette smoke between the two of them. Roger was seventeen in the picture.

_Why do I smoke? Eh, something to do. Keeps my mouth busy. Why don't you? Afraid of cancer? Huh, is wittle Marky afraid of the big bad _cancer

He could still hear the mocking laughter floating around his head as the cigarette settled between his lips, Roger-saliva present(disgusting), and he could still feel the choking pain that had come along as he gasped involuntarily, taking smoke into his lungs as the cigarette fell to his feet, burning into his white sneaker.

That had been an interesting experience.. and even _more_ interesting to explain to his parents just _why_ there was a scorch mark on his shoe.

A laugh of sorts escaped him--quick exhalation of breath through the nose, and that was that. Such memories held within this stack of photos, and the four shoeboxes full otherwise. Not to mention the cardboard boxes filled to the brim with film reels back at his apartment. The projector wasn't allowed in the hospital room--too cumbersome and in the way. Should there be an emergency they would be unable to get around it quickly enough. Besides, there was no surface against which the picture could play out their lives.

That same slipping sound as Roger joined Benny and Maureen in the back of the stack, which was becoming hard to hold in his hands. He lightly set the stack atop his blanket-covered legs, letting his hands rest. It was quite the chore, holding those pictures for as long as he had, especially considering just how sick he really was.

Cancer, they'd diagnosed. Lung cancer. His argument? He'd smoked one day his entire life. Second-hand, they'd offered, and he had no counter-argument for that. That had to be it. Collins had smoked, Mimi had smoked, Maureen had smoked, Benny had smoked.. Roger. Roger had smoked since they were seventeen. Not heavily. It had never progressed to that pack-a-day addiction, but it had been a steady habit, especially during the musician's half-a-year of withdrawal. A steady habit..

He shivered, picking up the pictures once again, resuming his lamenting. Angel and Collins, holding hands, separated by the side grating of a hospital bed. They were both smiling, Angel through her lesions, Collins through his grief, the both of them through the knowledge that this might very well be the last time they were photographed together.. the last time Angel might ever be photographed. The last time..

That picture quickly joined its brothers. Or, as quickly as Mark was able to get it out of his sight, at least. Every muscle took concentration to move. It even seemed as though he needed to consciously remind his heart to continue beating, pumping blood through him. Death was imminent, but their orders.. Survive. The one to survive them all. Hah, right. Maureen and Joanne were probably living large in some penthouse in Los Angeles, detached from their pasts. Maureen was probably living out her dream of being Patti Smith while her partner reaped the benefits of having money from New York, which went so much further in California.

The one to survive. Laughable. Three of them were outliving him, and they didn't even know it.

_Come on, Mark. Get out from behind that camera and take a picture with us. It is _your _birthday._

It was on their ratty couch. He was seated directly in the middle, grinning as widely as he possibly could, eyes nearly invisible because of the intensity with which he was smiling. His hands were laced together and placed on his knees. Roger to his left, Collins to his right. The anarchist had his drag queen pulled to his side as tightly as he possibly could, and Angel's head was resting on his shoulder. The guitarist had one arm around his best friend and another supporting his girlfriend, who was sitting sideways on the couch, one leg across the laps of Roger and Mark, the other hanging off of the couch. Benny sat behind her, thus creating a sort of leaning post. Even so, he looked extremely isolated, despite the half-grin he wore. Joanne was seated beside Angel.. and that was all the room they had on the couch. Maureen, upset by this, took her flair for the dramatic and stretched out across the back of the couch, looking too much like a cat for her own good, smiling coquettishly at the camera.

That day was remembered all too well. Everyone had had their own plans, or so they'd said, leaving him alone to cut film the entire day. His birthday. Not that he'd minded all that much--he'd prefer not to celebrate it anyway. There was no need to make a big deal about it.

How wrong he'd been.

All of them. All seven had been there, differences temporarily settled to party as hard as they possibly could in honor of their filmmaker's birthday.

_Their_ filmmaker, they'd said.. and that would explain his huge grin.

A single, degenerating hand reached up to run along his image on the glossy paper, brushing against Roger's and Collins' in one action. Tears that had threatened to fall for twenty-some years finally burned at the back of his eyes, and with the next blink they spilled forth, twins rivers down lined and creased cheeks, falling off of his chin and onto the hospital-issued clothing he wore, creating dark patches on the soft blue. The pictures splattered from his hands, all except for the picture he'd just been looking at. Roger and Mimi and Collins fell to the beside, Joanne and Maureen and Benny fell to the floor, his ex-wife fluttered every which way, before finally landing face-down on the floor. Faces from his past, everywhere, everywhere. Some just blank white backs of pictures, others' expressive faces giving their best to the world of the hospital room.

Mark clutched the picture to his stomach, unable to fold his arms up to his chest because of the various needles and wires and artificial life. If not for this support, he would have faded days previous. He knew this, and he knew the doctors realized. Why couldn't they just let him go? Just go. Just.. go.

_Just let go._

The former blonde's eyes squeezed shut and his teeth clenched as he tried his damnedest to sit up as well as he could. Old bones creaked, there was a loud 'crack' from somewhere along his spine, and a wordless, silent scream as a torrent of pain crashed in on and around him. The grate on the hospital bed fell down with a quiet mechanical sound. All mechanical. All artificial.

_It's okay now, Mark._

Feet, barely strong enough to hold him up anylonger, slipped off the side of the bed as he stood, pathetically. A photograph was caught beneath his foot, but it went unheeded. The only one that _really_ mattered was against his stomach.

One of the IVs slipped from his arm, followed by another--the two that were stuck in the right arm. He braced himself as well as he possibly could, using the bed for support as he shuffled carefully toward the machine emitting the high-pitched beep-beep-beeping. Cold blue eyes took it in with a calculating look, before he merely reached out and unplugged it. His glasses were gone, and his vision was blurry--everything. Absolutely everything within his reach was pulled from the socket it called its home. Gone. Everything.

He was very nearly panting when he collapsed back into bed, pulling the IVs from the other arm, a mad man on a mission. He was wheezing with every breath, each one of which had been harder than the last.

_One more, Mark. Just one more._

That same hand came up to his face, weakly taking hold of the tube wrapping under his nose and pulling it out and away from his face.

"Viva... La Vie... Boheme."

And then blessed darkness.

_Visits to You_


End file.
